I enter the weekend with dread worming its way through my stomach. Writing used to be my favorite thing in the world, and now it’s the bane of my existence, the thing I put off with crossword puzzles and gossip about celebrities I’ve never heard of in The Daily Mail. I now know more about Hamish and Delia from a show called Seduction Island than any adult really should.
There are two calls from Hayes about scheduling issues on Saturday morning, but given I’d expected far worse (House destroyed. Build new one. Also, need more tuxes), I feel like I’ve gotten off easy.
Eventually, I force myself to sit down at my laptop. The story leaves off when things have really gone awry—Aisling discovers the hole they climbed through is shrinking, but when she goes to the castle to get Ewan, the doors are locked. She will need to acquire some magic of her own or they’ll both remain trapped there forever.
It should be exciting…but I’m bored. I’ve tried to write the chapter where Aisling acquires magic. I’ve tried to map out her attack on the castle. I’ve tried skipping ahead to the epilogue, which finds her and Ewan married and settled back home.
But no matter how many words I spit out, I can’t make the book something I would want to read. So, what happens in September when the manuscript is due? Do I turn in a steaming pile of dogshit and hope they don’t notice, or do I return what I can of the advance and spend the rest of my life paying off Charlotte’s stay at Fairfield? These are the questions that keep me up at night, that have me sliding on my running shoes after dark, knowing sleep will be impossible otherwise.
There was a time when inspiration came after I fell asleep, but this weekend my dreams bring no answers. It’s just me, standing in a ballroom, with a dangerous man whispering in my ear.
That dream is still in my head on Monday morning, when I arrive to find Hayes playing the whole Satan thing to the hilt in a black shirt and pants. The dangerous look suits him—no surprises there. I run my eyes over his chest—his shirt is fitted enough to mold to his very sculpted upper body, and for a moment I picture it all over again—his hands on my arms, his breath in my ear. Warmth spreads over my skin and my bones seem to go loose before I stop myself. What am I doing? I mentally lock that deranged dream down and send it scuttling off to some dark corner of my brain. Never to be seen or heard again, I hope.
Shaking my head, I lift my eyes from his chest to his face. He seems rested and not hungover for once. Jonathan warned me he takes surgery days seriously. I guess I just couldn’t quite imagine Hayes taking anything seriously, other than himself.
“Someone named Piper texted,” I tell him. “She said she wanted to see for herself ‘if it’s as big as everyone says’.”
“My dick,” he says, as if this was unclear. “And it is.”
“I’ll let you inform her yourself,” I reply, sliding him the phone.
He ignores it, tipping his head to observe me. “If you’re not an actress,” he says, “why are you in LA? Modeling?”
I laugh. “Model? I’m five-four. Who would I model for?”
“Children’s clothes?” he suggests. “Or a fashion line for pygmies?”
A smile flickers over my face. “If pygmy fashion model is really a thing, I will tender my resignation immediately.”
He leans back in his seat, watching me. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
Nor do I want to. I look over his schedule to avoid his gaze. It’s all too depressing, the way nothing I hoped for is coming true.
“Why can’t I just want to be an assistant?” I ask. “Or a bartender?”
“Because you seem like someone destined for more,” he says quietly.
My head jerks up. I scan his face for sarcasm and find something else instead…interest, intrigue. If he knew me better, I imagine any intrigue would die a quick death. Because I once thought I was destined for more too, thanks to the writing contests and accolades in college, and time is definitely proving otherwise.
I paste an indifferent smile on my face. “I came out of the womb wanting to bartend. Which makes us well-suited, since you probably came out of the womb asking for a good scotch.”
“Macallan,” he agrees pleasantly. “It was my first word, actually. Coffee was second.”
I grin. “I’ve got a few guesses what the third word was. It starts with a p.”
He laughs as he rises from his chair, the sound low and warm and unexpected. It makes me feel like I’ve won something. He’s taken two steps toward the door when he stops and turns back toward me.
“Whatever it is you really wanted to do…you’re a little young to have already given up on it. And it seems unlike you to go down without a fight.”
“You’ve known me for a week. How would you know if I fight for things or not?”
“Well,” he says, “you’re fighting with me now, aren’t you?”
As he walks away, I admit to myself he might have a point. I’ve had Matt’s words in my head for too long, telling me I only got the book deal because of him. Telling me I’m never going to finish.
But Matt’s been gone for a year. Even if he’s still talking, perhaps it’s time I stopped listening.
I sink into the plush white chair in my office and turn on the computer, ignoring, for now, the Post-It note Hayes has left asking me to fix the hot tub and bedroom mirror. I return the weekend’s messages and adjust the schedule and it’s only when I’ve completed every last task that I wrinkle my nose and head upstairs to survey the damage.
If there’s a clog in that hot tub, I bet it’s something that rhymes with…fizz.
Marta hasn’t come in yet, so his room still looks like a crime scene. There are clothes on the floor, chairs overturned, and a bright red stiletto is wedged dead in the center of the massive mirror. Like, how does that even happen? Was it a strip tease run amuck? Were they trying to break the mirror? Either seems a possibility with Hayes and his, uh, friends.
I move past it to the deck off Hayes’s bedroom, where I find the water in the sunken hot tub alarmingly discolored and full of champagne bottles, one of which appears to be stuck in the filter. I could probably “fix” the issue simply by reaching in and plucking the bottle out, but fuck that. There’s not enough chlorine in the world for me to brave immersing my hand in that much bacteria.
I call repair guys for both, and while I wait for them, my mind returns to the book and what Hayes said this morning. What happens when I admit to the publisher I can’t finish it and have spent the advance? Even with what I earn at this job, I won’t have enough to repay it in full. My credit cards are nearly maxed out and Charlotte’s still got three months of treatment at Fairfield to pay for.
Maybe I’ve just gone off course and need a second opinion, but who can I ask for advice? Not my editor, as it would mean admitting the book is only half finished. Not my professors at NYU, nor my former classmates—I can just imagine all the snickering about a fantasy romance while they wield quietly brilliant prose about the mundane.
I’m in the middle of grocery shopping for Hayes—a list which mostly involves alcohol, mixers, and garnishes—when it comes to me: Sam. My old buddy from undergrad, who remained at Kansas State to get his PhD in English. He loved fantasy novels, but he was also a sharp and brutally honest critic.
And brutally honest is what I need, even if it kills me.
I get home that night and dial his number. Sam answers on the first ring. “Tali?” he asks. “Is it really you?”
I guess his surprise makes sense. Aside from the occasional email, I mostly fell out of touch when we graduated. Matt was always bothered by our friendship. It seemed best, when we left Kansas, to let it fade.
“It’s really me,” I reply, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. “How’s school?” He must be nearly done, which just makes me feel worse. I’d have my graduate degree by now if I’d stayed.
“Good. Working on my dissertation. What about you? I saw…online,” he says haltingly. “About you and Matt.”
Ugh. The one thing worse than breaking up with someone you’ve dated for most of your life is having his exploits broadcast nationwide. Everyone assumes I was the one who got dumped, and that I’m sitting back in my squalid apartment weeping over what I’ve lost. Which wouldn’t be entirely false, I guess, though not for the reasons they’d think.
I give him the barest details about the breakup, we discuss his dissertation and summer plans and my visit back home at the end of August.
“How’s the book coming?” he asks at last. Sam’s so easy to talk to, I’d almost forgotten the whole reason I called.
“I’m glad you brought it up,” I reply, flopping onto my mattress and arranging the pillows under my head. “I’m completely stuck at the midpoint and was hoping you could take a look at it. As I recall, you were always a voracious reader of fantasy novels.”
“So hot, isn’t it? The ladies love a guy who can discuss George RR Martin in detail. If I knew how to play Dungeons and Dragons, the package would be complete.”
Sam has never understood his appeal, no matter how many women throw themselves at him. “Stop. You seemed to find plenty of girls willing to ignore your nerd side.”
“I was kind of holding out for a girl who wouldn’t need to ignore it,” he replies.
Matt always claimed the girl Sam was holding out for was me, and the truth is if I hadn’t already had a boyfriend, I’d have been interested. He’s cute, and we probably had far more in common than I ever did with Matt.
“I’m sure there are plenty of those too,” I reply. It’s only after the words are out that I hear how potentially flirtatious they sound. Am I flirting? I don’t even know.
He tells me he’d be happy to read what I’ve got and we make tentative plans to meet up when I’m home at the end of August.
“Hey, Tali?” he says, catching me before I hang up. “It’ll be good to see you again. And I’m so glad you finally dumped Matt.”
The call ends, and I sit staring at the phone in my hand. I’ve told myself Sam is only a friend for so long that it’s a little surreal to consider any other possibility. And while the idea of dating again terrifies me, he’d be a little less terrifying than anyone else.
I’m still holding the phone when it chimes with an incoming text…this time from my boss. I’m less irritated than I should be that Hayes is now texting at midnight.
Hayes: Are you awake?
Me: Let me guess…unresponsive female in your home and you need me to come dig a shallow grave.
Hayes: No, that’s more of a 3 AM text. The bartender here is a twat. What’s the most irritating drink we can order?
Me: It’s called The Hayes. At least that’s what irritates me personally.
Hayes: Always so sharp-tongued.
Me: Yes. Like a snake. And you’re Satan, so it’s perfect for you.
Hayes: Your tongue is perfect for me? Say more.
Why Hayes is texting me while on a date with another woman is beyond me. What’s even more puzzling is…I like it.
